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Class 
Book. 



'RESENTED MY 



8 J» E HT C E R ' 8 

BOSTON 

fllifil 

A COLLECTION OF 

SCARCE ACTING TRAGEDIES, COMEDIES, DRAMAS, 
FARCES AND BURLETTAS. 

UNIFORM IN PRICE AND STYLE. 

Each Number 12% cts....lO For One Dollar. 



BOSTON: 

WILLIAM V. SPENCER, 
128 Washington Street, Corner of Water St. 



And 92 Tremont 




Spencer's Boston Theatre. 

.. » >« 

Price, 12 1-2 Cents, each. Ten for One Dollar. 
BOUND VOLUMES, SI. 



VOL. I. 

1 Moll Pitcher, 

2 The Forest Rose, 

3 Swiss Swains, 

4 Bachelor's Bedroom, 

5 Sophia's Supper, 

6 A Roland for an Oliver, 

7 Black-eyed Susan, 

8 John Bull, 

VOL. II. 

9 Satan in Paris, 

10 More Blunders than one, 

11 Rosina Meadows, 

12 The Dumb Belle, 

13 My Aunt, 

14 Spring and Autumn, 

15 Six Degrees of Crime, 

16 Limerick Boy, 



VOL. III. 

17 Presumptive Evidence, 

18 Man and Wife, 

19 The Sergeant's Wife, 

20 Masks and Faces, 

21 Merry Wives of Windsoi 

22 Nature and Philosophy, 

23 Agnes de Vere, 

24 Shandy Maguire, 

VOL. IV. 

25 Wild Oats, 

26 Michael Erie, 

27 Teddy the Tiler, 



29 Idiot Witness, 

30 Willow Copse, 

31 Matteo Falcone, 

32 People's Lawyer, 

VOL. V. 

33 Jenny Lind, 

34 Comedy of Errors, 

35 Lucretia Borgia, 

36 Surgeon of Paris. 

37 Patrician's Daughter, 

38 The Two Buzzards, 

39 Shoemaker of Toulouse, 

40 Momentous Question, 



VOL. VI. 

1 41 Love and Loyalty. 

; 42 Robber's Wife. 

• 43 Happy Man, 

, 44 Dumb Girl of Genoa. 

I 45 Wreck Ashore, 

; 46 Clari. 

47 Miller and his Men. 

; 48 Wallace. 



VOL. VII. 

49 Madelaine. 

50 Betsey Baker. 

51 The Fireman, 

52 No. 1, Round the Corner, 

53 Teddy Roe. 

54 Grist to the Mill. 

55 Object of Interest. 

56 Two Loves and a Life. 

VOL. VIII. 

57 Anne Blake. 

58 My Fellow Clerk. 

59 Bengal Tiger. 

60 The Steward. 

61 Capt. Kyd. 

62 Nick of the Woods. 

63 The Marble Heart. 

64 Laughing Hyena. 

VOL. IX. 

65 Second Love. 

66 The "Victor Vanquished. 

67 Our Wife 

68 Dream at Sea. 

69 My Husband's Mirror. 

70 Yankee Land. 

71 Norah Criina, 

72 Good .' v Nothing. 

VOL. X. 

73 The First Night 

74 The Rake's Progress. 

75 Pet of the Petticoats. 

76 The Eaton Boy. 

77 Wandering Minstrel. 

I 78 Wanted 1000 Milliners. 
. 79 Poor Pillicoddy. 
> 80 Breach of Promise. 



| VOL. XI. 

I 81 The Mummy. 

| 82 The Review. 

; 83 Lady of the Lake. 

! 84 Still Water Runs Deep 

85 Man of Many Friends. 

86 Love in Livery. 

87 Antony and Cleopatra 

88 The Scholar. 

VOL. XII. 

l 89 Helping Hands. 
I 90 Aladdin. 
! 91 Trying it on. 

92 Stage Struck Yankee 

93 Young Wife & Old 

94 Last Man, (Unr 

95 Belles' Stratagem, 

96 Crinoline. 

VOL. XIII. 

97 Old and Young. 

98 A Family Failing. 

99 The Young Scamp, 

100 The Adopted Child 

101 The Turned Head. 

102 A Match in the Da 

103 Advice to Husbanc 

104 Raffaelle. 

vol. xrv 

105 Rnth Oakley. 

106 The British Slave 

107 Siamese Twins, 

108 A Life's Ransom 

109 Sent to the Towi 

110 Giralda, 

111 Time Tries all, 

112 Ella Rosenburg. 

VOL. X 

113 Somebody Else. 

114 Warlock of the ( 

115 Zelina, 

116 Ladles' Battle, 

117 Art of Acting, 

118 The Brigand, 

119 The Lady of the 

120 Neighbor Jadrv < 



SPENCER,* 

PUB ; 

.ter Stre- B, 

BOSTC 



LA FIAMMINA. 

Jtomtofc apt u $xmfy |I^ bg lira WfyA 



¥1. ¥. CLAPP, JR., 

EDITOR OP " BOSTON SATURDAY EVENING GAZETTE j 



AUTHOR OF 



Z%e Record of the Boston Stage " — " My Husband's Mirror ' 
" John Gilbert and his Daughter " — etc. 



WITH ORIGINAL CASTS, AND THE WHOLE OF THE STAGE 

BUSINESS CORRECTLY MARKED AND ARRANGED 

BY MR. W. H. SMITH, STAGE MANAGER OF 

THE BOSTON MUSEUM. 



BOSTON: 
W. V. SPENCER, 

128 WASHINGTON STREET, CORNER OP WATER STREET. 






i-.ii&r.l 






saaS 



Q>rr 

eST OF J. H . COJ» NJNG 
' UN E 20. 1940 



(2) 



LA FIAMMINA 



ACT I. 

Scene 1. — The Studio of Leon. In front, R. h., an easel, on which 
is a picture representing a battle, on which Leon is working ; near 
by, 3 E. R., a picture of Rosaeie, almost finished. 

Enter Leon, r. h. 

Leon. Could I but recall that impression which came to me last 
eve, could I but transfer to canvas a passing thought which flitted 
through my brain, it seems 'twould be an easy task to give the last 
touch to this picture. (Looks at the picture.) Ah, if inspiration 
would but obey the will, I'd summon the great Csesar back, as me- 
thought I saw him last night, when he wore an expression which 
might have awed empires. If I had sought my easel then, I might, 
perhaps, have immortalized my name. But the idea is gone ; its 
shadow only remains, to remind me that old Time has not left me 
behind in his flight. 

Enter Henri, l. h. 

Henri. So early at your labors, dear father ? 

Leon. Yes, my son, for I came in hope of giving substance to sm 
ideality. I have missed you, my boy. 

Henri. A compliment which I can return ; for, under the pretext 
of pleasure, I have dined, for the last eight days, with Sylvain, 
Maurice, and Paul. I vainly endeavored to be gay ; but it was use- 
less. My laughter at the merry jokes of my companions was no more 
like the genuine response which wit provokes than the daub of a tyro 
is to a masterpiece from your hands ; for, father, you were not there to 
give the coloring a tone. 

Leon. Ah, my son, your heart is but a duplicate of mine own ; 
but see what progress I have made in my picture of the battle of 
Pharsalia. 

Henri. You are overcoming all obstacles. 

Leon. Do you think so ? 

Henri. I do. This mingling of chariots, these frightened horses, 

(3) 



4 LA FIAMMLNA. [ACT I. 

the tumultuous shock of those dark phalanxes which Csesar com- 
mands, calm and proud as a statue above the multitude, that lower- 
ing sky in harmony with the scene, are in perfect keeping. 

Leon. You think I have succeeded ? 

Henri. Yes ; but still I prefer your Macbeth. "Why not finish it, 
you are getting on so well with it ? 

Leon. That is, perhaps, the reason I fear spoiling it. A sketch is 
the very soul of a picture. Like a bud it is full of promise ; but its 
bloom does not always realize our expectations. 

Henri. That is your theory ; but I am sure your experience has 
not been such. With you, to conceive is to execute ; and success 
seems indelibly stamped upon every effort of your pencil. 

Leon. My boy, that success is within your grasp. The poorest 
peasant that sleeps to-night in France has but to extend his hand, and 
it is his. Would you obtain it ? 

Henri. If it cost me years of labor. 

Leon. Seek it persistently, courageously. The battle is one half 
gained when you have the ambition to win it. Leave the rest to 
time. 

Henri. I am but a poet ; and what are a poet's laurels compared 
with the never-fading chaplet which encircles an artist's brow? The 
success of a poet is temporary, and passes away. My new play and 
all its glory faded with the footlights of a single night. 

Leon. Do not depreciate the first blossom of your youth. 

Henri. But the fruit, my father ? 

Leon. It will ripen. Work. 

Henri. At what ? In singing of birds, flowers, and the plaintive 
murmur of the sea, which can only please young and dreaming souls ? 
All such have passed away ; the age of enthusiasts has gone, and 
young people of to-day have become calculators — they dream no 
longer. They who have lived in bygone days have reaped the harvest ; 
and we who are now living find but meagre gleanings. 

Leon. O, the harvest will ripen again, and, despite the clouds, 
there will be new laurels to win, and enough for all. 

Henri. I should like to write a drama, but for that I must study 
life. Experience, they say, makes the dramatist, and one must suffer 
the pangs of reality, and tread upon the thorns which are in the 
pathway of all who go out into the world to fight the great battle of 
life. But under your protection I have seen but the bright side of 
existence. 

Leon. Do not fear, my son ; you will see the reverse soon enough, 
and do not sigh after the thorns. 

Henri. {Taking a seat by his father, R. h. c.) 0, I am in no haste 
to learn experience in a bitter school ; but come, father, counsel me 
what to do. 

Leon. I would not counsel you to write a tragedy. 

Henri. Nor would I waste my time upon a task which would be 
fruitless. 'Tis no longer the age of poetry : fife is a reality. I envy 
you the years of your early youth, for you lived when that civil war 
was raging — the romantic against the classical — and great works 
issued from the dust of the combat. 



SCENE I.] LA FIAMMINA. 5 

Leon. Intelligence has always reigned supreme, and possesses the 
privilege of sovereignty. It never dies ; and when it sleeps, its nights 
are short, and what appears its end is but an interlude. We finish 
our roles, and then retire behind the scenes. It is for you, the youth 
of France, to press forward. The great public awaits you. 

Henri. The public wishes to-day what I cannot perform. How 
can I describe what I have not seen ? They weep no more with 
sweet Ophelia, they sympathize no longer with gentle Desdemona — 
those sweet heroines who blushed at the word love. The courtesan, 
whose gilded rooms and churchyard cough are the rewards and punish- 
ment of vice, has now the passport to public applause. 

Leon. You speak truly. Vice beautified is, indeed, a dangerous 
picture to hold up for the admiration of the world ; but, Henri, why 
not make virtue your theme ? 

Henri. Well, my dream shall be to give it a role, to devote my 
labors to virtue, which is represented always desponding, always 
miserable, and always persecuted. I would represent her strong, 
with hashing eyes and smiling lips ; no more a victim, but fighting 
and victorious. She shall be the beau-ideal of happiness, and as 
fascinating as the first dream of love that steals into the heart of 
maidenhood. 

Leon. Bravo ! Those are the first impulses of early manhood. 
Ah, yes, youth is a beautiful poem. Turn the leaves slowly over ; do 
not pass one ; 'tis the golden side of life, when even the clouds have 
their silver linings ! Youth, 'tis the solemn hour when the boy feels 
the approach of manhood, as love fills his soul with ecstasy. He 
smiles, and the world returns it. Standing at the threshold of life, 
he looks forth upon the horizon veiled by the future, and 'tis hope 
which lifts the curtain. 

Henri. How like a poet you talk, dear father ! 

Leon. You flatter me. 

Henri. No ; I flatter myself. You are the first painter of your 
age. Thanks to you, I am rich ; for your name is a talisman for me ; 
as in fairy days, it brings me happiness. All doors are opened to me, 
for 'tis the son of Leon de Murilla, and your glory is reflected upon 
me. I feel humble before all this consideration which descends to 
me, crushing me to nothing. When they say that is Murilla, the 
son, it seems to me as if the word son stood like a sentinel to warn 
people that I am not Murilla the great. 

Leon. But you will become so. You have yet to be tried ; but 
you will stand the test. It is Love which makes poets and artists. 
He imparts some rude lessons to his young pupils ; but the master- 
pieces are only made at his school. 

Henri. And have you, whom I see so calm and serene, have you 
passed through such an ordeal ? 

Leon. I have in my heart memories of great miseries, which have 
rendered me great good. 

Henri. My poor father ! {They rise, and come forward, c.) 

Leon, (r.) Say, rather, happy father. 'Tis to you I owe what 
little talent I may possess. You were the motive of my fife. When 
I saw you in your cradle, mv boy, I aspired to glorious achievements 
1* 



6 LA FIAMMINA. [ACT I. 

for your sake. With this incentive ever present, my paternal love 
would have made me shake the world. And that is why I do not 
warn you against your passion for fame. 

Henri. ( With enthusiasm.) I will write a piece on paternal love ; 
for I know its depth and fulness. 

Enter Servant, l. h. 
Serv. Miss Rosalie Duchateau. (Exit, L. H.) 

Enter Rosalie, l. h. 

Ros. Good morning, gentlemen. Do I interrupt a tete-a-tete ? 

Leon. Ah, my dear child, good morning. Interrupt us, my dear ? 
By no means. It is like a ray of sunshine to have you drop in on us. 
My palette has not a color which can vie with the hue of those rosy 
cheeks. 

Ros. Ah, sir, you old men love to natter us giddy- headed crea- 
tures ; but, Monsieur Henri, have you no word of welcome ? 

Henri. You do not think so. If I did not speak, it was simply 
because my heart was too full of happiness ; and then my father was 
gallant, and we are one. 

Ros. I'll forgive you ; and how prospers my picture ? My brother 
says you will natter me. 

Leon. He is a good-for-nothing fellow to say so. But am I to 
have a sitting to-day ? 

Ros. Will it trouble you if I do not sit ? for I have a bad head- 
ache ; and though I don't want you to do the original more than jus- 
tice, she don't want you to do her injustice ; and a person with a hor- 
rible headache never looks very fascinating. Mother and that wicked 
brother of mine were out riding, and they offered to leave me here for 
a time, while they called upon a friend ; and so I gladly availed my- 
self of the offer. Will you allow me to repose myself? 

Leon. Most willingly. Henri, show your ability by assisting Miss 
Rosalie to lay aside her hat. 

Ros. How many more sittings will you require ? 

Leon. (Resuming his work on R. h.) Two or three. 

Henri. (Aside to Rosalie.) Do you suffer much, dear Rosalie ? 

Ros. Yes — no — not much — a good deal — that is, not at all ; 
I want to prolong the sittings. 

Henri. A thousand thanks. And may I hope that you still 
love me r 

Ros. Hush ! if he should hear. — (Aloud.) ' Ah, this is your al- 
bum ; do let me see it. 

Henri. Certainly. — (Aside.) You have not answered my 
question. 

Ros. Your question is an impertinent one. I loved you — yes- 
terday. I will say no more. 

Henri. Dear Rosalie ! 

Ros. What does this picture represent ? 

Henri. (Wlio is looking into her eyes.) It is a picture of paradise, 



SCENE I.J LA FIAMMINA. 7 

painted from imagination. You see that happiness and contentment 
hover round the bank where two' lovers are seated, watching the 
graceful swans as they glide slowly along. 

Ros. I see nothing like this before me. It is a picture of a forest, 
cold and uninviting. (Turns over a leaf.) "What is this ? 

Henri. ( Taking her hand.) It represents the fine attributes which 
make a woman attractive to the eye of man — beauty, fidelity, pa- 
tience, confidence, faith. 

Ros. Are you wandering ? for I see an open plain, and away in 
the horizon a castle. You are but a poor guide, I fear. Come, pay 
more attention, and give me a version of this sketch. 

Henri. ( Glances at it.) That is an allegorical picture representing 
the voyage of love. You see the young man standing at the foot of 
the mount, on the top of which, seated in a bower, is a maiden ; so 
love exalts the being it adores. She reads, and takes no note of him 
— I say she reads, and takes no note of him. (Rosalie drops the 
book, and gazes at Henri.) It was the artist's intention to have com- 
pleted the series ; but he died. 

Ros. Did she return his love ? 

Henri. She did at heart ; but, coy and shy, she made no outward 
semblance, and, broken-hearted, the youth was turning away when 

she gave words to the emotions of her beating heart, and told him 

Cannot you imagine what she said ? 

Ros. That she loved him as fondly, as ardently, as truthfully as I 
love you. 

Leon. Do you find the album interesting, my dear ? There are 
some verses there, which Henri composed. 

Henri. Father, I beg of you to give a little more life to the eye of 
that charger. Miss Rosalie has no taste for verses such as mine. 

Ros. I am sure I have, and I will read them. — (Aside.) Mother 
said this morning, when I told her that you loved me, that we were 
but children yet ; but she smiled, and kissed me. 

Henri. I will be a dutiful son to her ; that is, I'll try, for I never 
knew what it was to have a mother ; but, Rosalie, when you are my 
wife 

Leon. "VVhat is that ? 

Ros. He has heard you. 

Leon. You said, "When you are my wife." Ah, Miss Rosalie, is 
this true ? is this so ? 

Henri. (Confusedly.) It was a speech, sir, in a little play, which 
we are to act on the occasion of Rosalie's birthday. 

Leon. Would you deceive your father ? Shall I not say wedding 
day instead of birthday ? 
-Henri. No, sir ; not for the world would I deceive you. We have 
long loved ; and this morning Rosalie has told her mother of our 
attachment. 

Leon. But you are mere children. 

Ros. That is what mother says ; but all persons are children once, 
and I am sure that it is not a crime to love. 

Leon. (Smiling.) No, my dear ; and I will confess that I have 
not been so unobserving a witness of the growth of your love as you 



8 LA FIAMM1NA. [ACT I. 

may have imagined. My old friend, your father, can scarcely object 
to such an alliance, and I will be your ambassador. 

Henri. A thousand blessings for that promise, dear father. You 
take delight in making every body happy. But I hear footsteps. 
Who comes here ? 

Enter Stlvain, l. h. ; crosses to Henri. 

Syl. A man without a motive. 

Henri. Ah, my dear friend, as blue as ever ! the walking person- 
ification of indifference. 

Syl. The only bit of poetry which ever came from you, which had 
the common sense of a downright prosy remark. 

Ros. Don't be disagreeable, brother. 

Syl. (Crosses to Rosalie.) Stand up straight, miss, and throw 
your shoulders back. (Henri at table, l. h.) 

Ros. (Aside to Stlvain.) I've a secret to impart to you. 

Syl. (Aside to Rosalie.) Thank you, miss, for making me your 
confidant ; but as mother has seen fit to break the intelligence to me 
since we left you here, you can keep your little treasure for your 
dressing maid. 

Ros. What did mother say ? 

Syl. She did not attempt to transform me into an errand boy, 
and therefore sent you no message. 

Ros. But 

Syl. Stand up straight, miss. My gracious ! these school girls, 
they jump out of pantalettes, and fall in love in two motions. — And 
the portrait ? 

Ros. I did not sit to-day : I had a bad headache. 

Syl. You must have caught it coming up stairs, then ; for when 
you left the carriage at the door, I thought I never saw you look 
better. But, ah, I had nearly forgot — mother waits in the carriage for 
you. Tell the kind, doting soul that her hopeful son will remain 
here till he gets tired, or they get tired of him, when he will indulge 
in the novelty of a walk home. — (To Leon.) A fine picture that. 

Henri. Must you leave me so soon ? What does Sylvain say ? 

Ros. (Putting on her hat.) Nothing. You must make friends 
with him : he will be a powerful pleader should mother resist. 

Henri. I will. Good morning. 

Ros. (To Leon.) Good morning, my dear, friend. I will be 
punctual to-morrow at eleven o'clock. (Exit, L. h.) 

Syl. (Sitting on the sofa, c.) At last we can have a moment's 
peace. If there are two things which I detest more than others, 
they are a cold bath and a chattering girl. 

Leon, (r.) You appear miserable, my friend. 

Syl. Miserable ? yes, sir, in the superlative degree. If you only 
had to live at our house. 

Leon. And what, I pray, is the matter at your house ? 

Syl. Every thing is topsy-turvy. I assure you, sir, that if a 
comet was going to strike this world to-morrow, and send us all into 
chaos there could not be more disorder. They come, they go, they 



SCENE I.] LA FIAMMINA. 9 

Henri, (l. h.) Ah, yes, for to-morrow is the anniversary of your 
father's birthday. 

Syl. Ah, that is not it. But the day is the great day, the solemn 
day, the opening of the Italian opera — debut of La Fiammina. 

Henri. Why, so it is. 

Syl. My music-mad father was up at daybreak, and called to see 
how the voice of the prima donna had passed the night. It is now 
noon, and he must be just paying his third visit. 

Leon. Does he know La Fiammina ? 

Syl. Does he know her ? Great Heavens, what a question ! My 
father, sir, knows all the vocalists that were ever born, and several 
that never were born. His duty to his country, as a deputy, is only 
interrupted by his insanity upon music. Our home is a species of 
musical conservatory — a concert every Friday night sure, and a re- 
hearsal about every Sunday. I've been fed on music since the day 
of my birth, and that is the reason I am no musician. 

Henri. But you play on the piano. 

Syl. No, sir, I do not play. I drum, sir, drum, sir ; and if I only 
had the strength of Samson, I'd shiver the ivories at every touch. 
They taught me to play when I was too young to resist. Ah, I am 
a miserable devil ! If suicide wasn't so common, I'd give the papers 
an interesting paragraph. 

Henri. But what troubles you now ? 

Syl. Nothing. Do you understand the meaning of nothing ? 
My life is nothing. I lead a drawling, monotonous existence. There 
isn't even a tempest in a teapot to ruffle the everlasting sameness 
of it. 

Leon. (Laughing.) Ah, you are to be pitied. 

Syl. Laugh away, my friend ; it is because you do not understand 
me. You live, you are celebrated, you have emotions ; but I am 
fossilized, boxed up. I shouldn't wonder if I went into the man- 
ufacture of thimbles next. 

Henri. Adopt some profession. Become a politician ; with your 
fortune every thing is possible. 

Syl. A politician, like my father ! How exalting the idea ! Co- 
partner with him in humbugging the dear public. No, sir ; that's 
not in my line. I was intended for another' century. I lead a wan- 
dering life in the midst of the disordered elements. 

Henri. A Don Quixote, perhaps. 

Syl. Don Quixote was not so bad ; he was happy ; his folly was 
sweet, setting aside the beatings he was not anticipating. I tried a 
slight imitation of him, by attempting to carry off my Clorinda ; 
but it was a failure. As we were stepping into the carriage, the fair 
one's father opened the -window, and shouted out, " My daughter, 
you are forgetting your passport," and threw it out to her. The 
romance was gone — no opposition, no pursuit — and so I merely drove 
her round the boulevard, and left her with her parent. 

Leon. Poor Sylvain ! 

Syl. You may smile ; but a man's life is sometimes like a railroad, 
smooth and straight. One rolls along a sort of accommodation ex- 
istence without any danger of blowing up. Every thing is regulated by 



10 LA FIAMMINA. [ACT I. 

a sort of domestic time-table, and you stop at all the way stations. 
Marriage, children, widowhood, and not always lucky enough to stop 
there. Imagine such a flat mode of killing time. No more roman- 
tic loves, no more silk ladders, no more serenades, no mGre duels, no 
more brigands, no more any thing. Ah, cursed century ! 

Leon. But you have much to be thanful for, having so good a 
father. 

Syl. Sir, I assure you, it would be a relief to have him cruel. It 
would be a novelty to have him persecute me. I endeavored to 
provoke him this morning a little, to experience the pleasure of a sen- 
sation. «« My boy," said he, " there are two thousand francs. Be 
prudent." 

Leon. Ah, my boy, you are not so bad as you seem. You love 
that old father dotingly. But I must leave you. I have an engage- 
ment to keep ; but, at six o'clock, Henri, I shall expect you and 
Sylvain to dine with me. We will cure our friend of his blues. My 
respects at home, Mr. Sylvain. (Exit, r. h.) 

Henri. And now, Sylvain, that we are alone, let me entreat you 
to do me a service. 

Syl. If it be to kill a lion, catch an ostrich, carve up a rhinoce- 
ros, or something which will give me an impetus, I am yours to 
command. 

Henri. But that is not it. It is nothing which requires exertion ; 
it is simply a movement of the will. 

Syl. I can't do it, then. I can't start the will ; that's my trouble. 
I conceive splendid schemes, I have lofty aspirations in my mind ; 
but when it comes to execute, I'm not there. I am a slave to my 
will. 

Henri. But you can aid if you are so disposed. I love Rosalie. 

Syl. O, I know all that ; and I suppose you will marry her. I 
don't take any interest in such trifles. Love, nowadays, is a matter 
of contract — no excitement, no romance. 

Henri. But if a kind word is required, will you speak it ? Your 
influence is great. 

Syl. I'll not interfere ; that's all I promise. Imagine, for an in- 
stant, that in five years from now you should become enamoured of 
some great celebrity, and should leave Madame Rosalie and eight or 
ten children 

Henri. Stop, stop, not so fast. I beg 

Syl. Well, twins, then. What would be said to me ? — " If Syl- 
vain had not favored the match, this, that, and the other would not 
have taken place." 

Henri. But do you believe that I am capable of such conduct? 

Syl. Frenchmen are very uncertain, especially when Cupid shoots 
his arrows from two dark eyes. But who is coming ? 

Enter Servant, l. h. 
Serv. M. Duchateau. (Exit, i.) 

Enter M. Duchateau, l. 
M. Duch. Ah, my son. M. Henri, I salute you. Your father is 
not here ? 



SCENE I. J LA FIAMMINA. 11 

Henri. I regret to say he is not. An engagement has called him 
away. 

M. Duch. How long will he be absent ? 

Henri. That is uncertain. 

M. Duch. 'Tis a pity. I wished to ask permission to bring La 
Fiammina and Lord Dudley to his studio. They are connoisseurs in 
art, and are now in the anteroom. 

Henri. His absence is to be regretted ; but in his name I will give 
them a cordial welcome. I beg you to show them in. 

M. Duch. I will. (Exit, L. H.) 

Syl. Another vocal affliction for me. I shall be fed on Fiammina 
before the week is out. 

Enter La Fiammina and Lord Dudley, l. 

M. Ditch. M. Murilla, I have the honor to introduce you to La 
Fiammina, the superior of Malibran or Pasta. (La Fiammina is 
slightly moved by his appearance, and bows.) My son, madam. Lord 
Dudley, gentlemen. 

Lord D. We come into your father's (crosses to Henri) studio for 
the first time ; but we are not strangers, for several of his master- 
pieces are the gems of my own gallery. 

Henri. Sir, you honor my father. Your taste as an amateur is not 
unknown to him. I thank you, in his name, for the pleasure of this 
visit. 

Fiam. (l. h., aside.) Those tones ! his bearing ! Is this some 
vision ? Am I to pay the penalty, to-day, of one sad misdeed ? 

Lord D. I came to pay my compliments to your father ; but I had 
a favor to ask. I wish a copy of this miniature, on canvas, from his 
pencil, of such a size as his judgment may best dictate. I shall doubly 
prize it as a souvenir of his talent, and of my gentle Fiammina. 

Syl. (Aside.) Would that I were an artist. 

Henri. (R. c.) I cannot answer for his acceptance of your offer ; 
but I will use my own powers of persuasion to induce him to accept 
the commission. It is some time since he has touched the canvas, 
except when personal friends solicit. 

M. Duch. I will talk to him ; he must do it ; and, Henri, I shall 
expect to see you in our box this evening. There will be chairs for you 
and your father. Would that he could paint a voice. 

Syl. (Aside.) The first evidences of insanity are coming on. 
(Lord D. and La F. retire, c.) 

M. Duch. Ah, Henri, you have never heard La Fiammina. 

Henri. Never. 

M. Duch. (l. h.) She is lovely, as you see ; but on the stage, as 
Norma, she is the embodiment of the tragic muse. When wrought 
to frenzy, her large eyes glow with passion, her face assumes the 
aspect of intensest grief, and her notes spring forth as pure as pearls. 

Lord D. A beautiful picture this ! 

Henri. It is one on which my father is now engaged. 

La Fiam. O, it is glorious to be an artist ! There must be a 
proud satisfaction in looking at the work of one's own hands. One 



12 LA FIAMMINA. [ACT I. 

who is truly great may be pardoned the vanity of admiring his own 
productions. 

Henri. {Crosses to Fiammina, leaving Lord Dudley, Duchateau, 
and Sylvain looking at the album.) Ah, madam, but an artist like 
yourself enjoys a prouder glory, for the admiration of a public reaches 
your ears in delicious tributes of warm applause. 

La Fiam. (e.. h.) True, true, there is ecstasy in the approval of the 
world, when it comes in loud bravos and shouts which are heartfelt ; 
but that dies away with the moment ; yet with a picture it remains. 
I never forget a beautiful painting I have once seen, and my memory 
never fails me in recalling a face. When I saw you, there was an 
impression here that we had met before. 

Henri, (l.) Madam, that honor has not been mine. 

La Fiam. Have you no relative in Rome, who may resemble you ? 
for, as I look more and more, there is a memory of some one, which 
haunts my brain. 

Henri. I have no relative save my father. My mother died many 
years ago. 

La Fiam. 'Tis but a false impression, then, and, like an idle 
thought, I'll drive it away. — {Aside.) There is a mysterious influ- 
ence in this room ; an unseen element seems to have shaken every 
fibre of my heart, and its pulsations fill me with fear. Why do 1 
tremble here ? why does this brain throb ? What has summoned 
back the past, and caused to bleed anew those wounds I thought 

forever healed ? I must throw this off, or my lord will discover 

( To Heniu.) I deeply regret that your father is not here, for I wished 
much to see one whom I have admired through his works. But tell me, 
— for this doubt which lingers here must be satisfied, — is your father 
a man of gentle disposition, of loving nature, kind to extremes, im- 
petuous at times, commanding in figure, and quick to act ? So this is 
his portrait 

Henri. {Pointing to d. It. h., where Leon has quietly entered.) There 

he stands, madam ; he is (La Fiammina does not scream at once, 

but holds her hands in horror, and Leon dissappears. She then shrieks; 
all come around her. Quick Curtain.) 

end of act i. 



ACT II. • 

Scene I. A Room, with windows in f., in Leon's house. Leon dis- 
covered seated at table, c. 

Leon. {OnTj.n.of table.) How weak, how feeble, how trivial 
are the plans we lay for happiness, when we imagine that the past 
can be obliterated, and that the future can be moulded by our will ! 
I did not think, when I watched the unfolding of Henri's love for 
Rosalie, that ere the day closed I should stand with him in the pres- 



SCENE I.] LA FIAMMINA. 13 

ence of her who gave him birth, whose coming is like a dark cloud 
thrown over the horizon of those I love so dearly. The shock was too 
great for me, and I could not explain all to him ; yet enough he saw 
to know that La Fiammina is his mother. (Goes to the window.) 
Ah, the bright sun seems but to mock my sadness. He left me, and 
has not since returned. No harm could have befallen him, and yet I 
fear. Great God, can it be possible that he has forsaken me r Can 
he have rewarded my years of devotion by leaving me now, when 
more than ever I need his support ? No, no ; though he may think I 
did wrong in the deception which I have practised, alas ! it was but 
for his happiness — he cannot leave me. No, I hear his step. 

Enter Henri, r. 

Ah, my boy, what has kept you away ? 

Henri. (R.) A thousand pardons, dear father, but ask me not the 
cause. You, who read so well the emotions of the heart, you, who 
know how this weak nature of mine is touched, need not words to 
tell you what I have suffered. 

Leon, (l.) Do not reproach me, my boy, for every grief which 
rends your heart inflicts a double wound on mine. 

Henri. Reproaches, father ? No, no, no ! The first smile which 
cheered my infancy was that which your face wore when you 
watched me in my cradle. The hand which led me in boyhood, 
the arm which has guided me in early manhood, were yours ; and 
should I reproach you ? 

Leon. (Seated in c.) My noble boy ! But listen, Henri, for I 
will relieve this overburdened mind by the sad tale. You know that I 
passed in Home several years of my youth. I became enamoured of 
a young girl of noble birth, and married her. I was then thoughtless 
— attraeted here and there by beauty's light — and my wife became 
jealous of me. There was no just cause ; but maturer thought forces 
me to admit that there was the semblance of infidelity. She gave 
birth to you. God knows what joy came to me when I looked upon 
your face, and God knows what holy vows I made. But it was too 
late ; jealousy had taken possession of your mother, and every look, 
every word of mine, was misinterpreted. My patience on one un- 
happy occasion deserted me, and maddened by the very consciousness 
of my own innocence, I struck her. 

Henri. My poor father ! 

Leon. A few words,, and I have done. She deserted me. I left 
with you for the south of Spain. I went to Madrid, and adopted a 
new name, a name which, thank Heaven, is not tarnished by a sus- 
picion. I lost all trace of my wife for years, nor have I sought to 
hear of her, though I once heard that she was married. She is now the 
friend of Lord Dudley. My marriage has always remained a secret, 
and is known only to two witnesses, who are now living in Paris. 

Henri. And one of them is Colonel de Champrosay. 

Leon. How know you tins ? Surely he has not betrayed a confi- 
dence that has remained unbroken for more than twenty years ; to 
which not even an allusion has been made by either of us ? 
2 



14 LA FIAMMINA. [ACT II. 

Henri. No. The scene of yesterday made me delirious ; I wan- 
dered out into the fresh air, and walked the streets. I went I knew 
not whither, for my bosom was a prey to wicked thoughts. It was 
night ere I was aware that an hour had fled ; and impelled by a desire 
which was neither love nor curiosity, but which seemed to attract me 
towards her, I entered the Opera, and was listening to Norma. 
Upon the fall of the curtain, two officers, near me, wearing 
badges of bravery, engaged in conversation, and La Fiammina was 
the topic. " She is beautiful," said one, " and has not changed since 
I knew her when she was a mere girl at Rome." " You knew her 
then," said his companion : '' who is she ? " " She is the mistress of 
Lord Dudley, I hear." At that word, father, I felt every nerve vi- 
brate, for your honor and mine were blasted. Had I held a weapon, 
blood would have effaced that stain. I sprang forward and exclaimed, 
" It is a lie." He handed me his card; here it is. {Gives card.) I 
returned him mine. He glanced at it, when his flashing eyes were 
moistened, and he bade me follow him into the open street. " Sir," 
said he, " you are the son of Leon de Murilla. I ask your pardon. 
Take that card to him," he continued, " and if he advises you to meet 
me, my address is at your disposal." 

Leon. Let it terminate. {Rising.') You must neither fight him 
nor any other for such a cause. Between your mother and us, there 
is no honor in common. — {Aside.) The day that a couple break 
the link which binds them, they expose themselves to the judgment 
and the blame of the world ; but the future is theirs, and each answers 
by a life's purity, to the calumnies of the past. If one falls, it does 
not drag the other down. {Crossing to R.) 

Henri. Will you go with me to M. Duchateau's f6te at his country 
seat to-day ? 

Leon, (a.) No, for she will be there. 

Henri, (l.) Are you sure ? 

Leon. I heard so yesterday. But, my son, I have no desire to 
withhold you from her presence. If you feel drawn towards her, go. 
I know that my boy will ever remain true to one whose love knows 
no other affection. And Rosalie, too ; it would be wrong to remain 
away. 

Henri. But, father, before I wed her, her father must know all. 
I cannot gain her hand, though I may possess her heart, under false 
colors. 

Leon. Do you doubt my honor ? I have already reflected upon 
the matter. But go to your room and prepare. Make my apology, 
and be with me again as soon as your duty to Rosalie will permit. 

Henri. I will. {Exeunt Henri, l., Leon, r.) 



SCENE II.] LA FIAMMINA. 



Scene II. — A Parlor in Duchateau's Country Home. In the c, a 
door opening on a garden. Syltain discovered seated at a table, e. h., 
writing, and from time to time he lifts his eyes as if in thought. 

Enter Duchateau, h. 

M. Duch. What the mischief are you doing there ? That young 
man is insane since he saw La Fiammina. Singular scene, that at 
Murine's — fainted away at a pop, and nobody can explain it. At 
night f^e appeared, and sang Norma splendidly, delightfully 

Syl. (Writing.) Divinely. 

M. Duch. Yes, sir, divinely ; but what or whom do you allude to ? 

Sgl. (Folding the letter and addressing it.) La Fiammina, the 
adorable. 

M. Duch. You seem in fine spirits. 

Syl. Say fourth proof, father — I am ecstatic — I am a bird. Love, 
sir, has rapped at my heart. I said, Come in, Cupid. The son of 
Venus entered, put his door plate on the outside, and on it was written 
La Fiammina. 

M. Duch. You are a fool, sir. 

Syl. Father, don't say that. I am not your son this morning ; I'm 
a sensitive plant ; don't handle me rudely, or you will break the ten- 
drils of my budding affection. 

M. Duch. What have you there ? 

Syl. It is the wail of my soul, the poetry of my whole existence 
strained down into three stanzas addressed to La Fiammina. 

M. Duch. You can save your powder ; she is married. 

Syl. Sir, Mr. La Fiammina is no better than a dead man, now ; 
he dies by sunrise. 

M. Duch. Lord Dudley is her husband, and let me pray you to 
give up all your foolish ideas. 

Syl. The gentleman I saw yesterday is her husband, you say ? 

M. Duch. He is, and when La Fiammina leaves the stage, she be- 
comes a great lady. She is Lady Dudley in a parlor. 

Syl. I shall send my letter. 

M. Duch. And Lord Dudley will send you a challenge. He has 
already taught a severe lesson to many who were too enthusiastic, and 
if he gives you a lesson in small swords, I am afraid he would illumi- 
nate your ideas upon the respect due to a lady. 

Syl. I am decided ; I was fearful of too easy a conquest ; now 
that there is an Othello in the case, my mind is made up. 

M. Duch. Have you lost your reason ? 

Syl. Quite the contrary. Do you think you can frighten me from 
what promises to be the most interesting chapter of my life r Sir, to 
men of mettle, a jealous husband is the greatest attraction a woman 
can have. Without the dragon, the golden apples of the Hesper- 
ides would have been oranges like any others, at three francs the 
dozen. 

M. Duch. A strait jacket is making for you ; but here is your 
mother and sister. Don't be foolish before them. 



LA JF1AMMINA. [ACT II. 



Enter Rosalie and Mme. Duchateau, l. h. 

( To his wife.) Ah, my dear, you look charmingly. 

Mme. Duch. (l. h.) Your selection of dress, you know, my love. 
{They retire and arrange flowers in vases, §c.) 

JRos. (Crosses to Sylvain.) Have you seen Henri ? 

Syl. Ihe same old stereotyped question. You left me with him 
yesterday. 

Ros. I mean, did you see him last night ? 

Syl. Stand up straight, miss, and throw your shoulders back. 
Yes, I did see him at the Opera. 

JRos. Did he say any thing ? 

Syl. A girl's question. Yes, he did say something. 

Ros. Was it a message to me, or an intimation that he would be 
here early to-day ? 

Syl. Neither. 

Bos. Pray tell me, then, what it was he said. 

Syl. Just before La Fiammina sang Casta Diva, I was standing in 
the lobby, when he came along and said, " Good evening." I touched 
my hat, and if this is at all satisfactory to you, don't forget to thank 
me. 

Ros. Always provoking. But I know he will come. 

Enter Servant, c. 
Serv. Lord Dudley, Mme. Fiammina. {Exit Servant.) 

Enter Lord Dudley and Mme. Fiammina, c. 

M. Duch. (r.) A thousand thanks, madam, for this honor. 

Mme. Duch. (l.) I am happy, madam, to be among the first to 
congratulate you on your immense success. 

Syl. (r. corner.) And, madam, allow me to add my felicitations 
to those of my mother. I seldom write verses, madam, but I trust 
these may not prove disagreeable to you. 

La Fiam. (c.) For my private eye, I presume ? 

Syl. {Aside.) I thought so ; the attachment is reciprocal. 

M. Duch. Your illness was but temporary yesterday ? 

Lord D. (l. c.) A mere transient attack of the nerves. She is 
often troubled, when anticipations of an appearance cause her to 
doubt her powers to please. 

Mme. Duch. But the triumph was a glorious one. 

La Fiam. My last trial was one of the most painful I have ever 
undergone ; and now that the trial is over, I breathe free again. They 
have surrounded me with the perfume of approbation, and I feel 
like a child of their own adoption. You, who gaze coldly on the as- 
pirant for your favor, do not dream of the anguish of the actress 
before a strange audience, nor can you know what inspiration there 
is in the recognition of your efforts. 

Mme. Duch. Ah, madam, I envy you ; it must indeed be a sen- 
sation worth a fife of struggle. 



SCENE II.] LA FIAMMINA. 17 

La Fiam. Ah, madam, do not envy me, for you have richer 
sources of joy here within your embrace. And then success is not al- 
ways sure. You do not know how for long, dreary nights, for months, 
the artist suffers the fear of failure. The dread that all her toils, her 
privations may end in nought, banishes sleep from her eyes, and food 
from her desire. Life to her appears enclosed in one word — Success ! 
And when at length the moment comes, with faltering step and 
trembling heart she enters upon the scene. One glance comprehends 
the dazzling glare of those footlights before which so many have quailed, 
the cold, unsympathizing audience sit there in the pale light like 
statues, and she feels as if a thousand tongues were but awaiting the 
signal from her lips to overwhelm her with hisses 

M. Duck. {Interrupting.') But if there is applause ? 

La Fiam. Tis as a plank thrown to a drowning man. She re- 
vives ; she regains her courage. The statues in front are no longer 
marble ; there is sympathy in their human faces, and she pours out 
those strains that have so often softened her own soul. They move, — 
there is an electric influence at work — she forgets all, even her trials 
— her life, her heart, her very being are in this one effort. The very 
silence of the spectators drives her to an enthusiastic frenzy. Her 
voice pours out its melody like a flood of living light, and she finishes. 
There is a pause — they have not yet drunk in the fulness of the 
draught. Her blood curdles, she falters ; but in another moment, 
cheer follows cheer — the house rise to greet her with a crown of 
recognition ; and then it is that she feels at the summit of her aspi- 
rations. Such a reward obliterates years of trial. 

M. Duch. Ah, indeed, it may. 

La Fiam. But all is not sunshine with us ; for it is hard, indeed, 
to wear a joyous face, to laugh, to sing, when there is misery here. 
{Touches her heart ; crosses, L. H.) 

Lord D. But my lady does not speak from experience. 

La Fiam. {On L. h.) No. — {Aside.) Could he but penetrate 
now into {crosses) its secret recesses, he would there see that even now 
I have but acted my part. 

Syl. (r., aside.) Adorable creature ! 

M. Duch. Allow me, madam, to escort you to the garden. Our 
friends are already assembling on the lawn, where the villagers will 
enjoy a rustic dance. We will then return, and pass an hour at cards, 
till dinner. {Exit, c, all except Sylvain and Rosalie. Duchateau 
takes Fiammina ; Dudley, Madame D.) 

Syl. That father of mine is always in the wrong place. Why 
didn't he say, Sylvain, conduct Madam Fiammina to the conser- 
vatory ? 

Eos. More trouble, brother ? 

Syl. Yes, Rosy. I wish people would do as they would be done 
by, and always remember that a pretty woman much prefers leaning 
on the arm of a young man to touching the tips of her fingers to the 
cold, rough broadcloth of a dried-up old man. 

Eos. Always growling ; but here comes Henri. 

Syl. Then I'm absent. I'll take a tag along after the others. 
2* 



18 LA. FIAMMINA. [ACT II. 

Better follow than stay here. Remember, miss, stand up straight, and 
throw your shoulders back. {Exit, c.) 

Enter Henri, l. h. 

Henri. Ah, Rosalie, my compliments on your appearance. I dare 
say that not one at the fete can rival you in neatness and taste. 

Ros. You flatter me. I expected you an hour ago. "Where is 
your father ? 

Henri. He is ill, and sends his apology. 

Ros. But, Henri, you do not look well. Your eyes are red ; and, 
now I look at you again, you appear as if you had been crying. 

Henri. Tears, sweet Rosalie, tears are not for men. My father is 
ill, and I was up late last night. Nothing more. But what does your 
father say ? 

Ros. He awaits the proposal in form from your father. 

Henri. He shall not wait long ; for this morning we spoke of it. 
But, Rosalie, suppose your parent should object ? 

Ros. Never fear. If he refuses, I will scold ; if that don't change 
him, I will coax ; and I know he will soften at once. Let us to the 
garden. I wish you to see a lady whom you will like to know. 

Henri. I go with pleasure. — (Aside.) It is La Fiammina. 
(Exit, c. ; as they exit Sylvain enters.) 

Syl. Ah ! Henri, how do you do ? 

Henri. I thank you, well. We seek your father, Sylvain. 

Syl. Remember my directions, miss. 

Ros. O, nonsense, brother! (They exit, c.) 

Syl. The lovers are gone. I had rather be the third party in 
a two-seated cabriolet, the fifth at a table of whist, the thirteenth 
man at a dinner table, tban stand near two lovers when they are just 
lighting the tender flame. (Looks out.) The old gentleman is mak- 
ing a victim of Lord Dudley. He has got him into his dahlia bed, 
and will tell him the story of every root there. What ! here comes 
La Fiammina, conversing earnestly with Henri. She looks tenderly 
into his eyes, and he appears cold and indifferent. Would that I 
were in his place. They stop, and she looks round to see if they are 
observed. She hastens this way. Henri comes with her. Is this a 
flirtation ? Will I remain, and conceal myself? No ; if he is my 
rival, there is a way to despatch him. They come. (Exit, r. h .) 

Enter La Fiammina and Henri, c. 

La Fiam. (l. h.) Our absence may be observed, and there is but 
a moment to remain. I have much — O God, how much ! — to tell 
you ; but not here. I must see you alone, and where we cannot be 
interrupted. 

Henri, (r.) Madam, that obedience to your wishes, which may 
not conflict with the duty I owe to another, it will be my pleasure 
freely to pay. I shall await your commands. 

La Fiam. Do not, as you hope for the future rest of your mother's 
soul, stand there so cold and unforgiving. I know not what your 



SCENE II.] LA FIAMMINA. 19 

father has told you of our early marriage ; but I know he spoke 
nought but the truth. I was a girl, whose form had more maturity 
than her years discretion, when we married, and wronged, as I 
thought, I provoked your father's anger. 

Henri. Madam, he has told me all. 

La Fiam. Not all, Henri ; for he does not know what I have suf- 
fered. He has been happy in you, while I have been childless. I can- 
not blame you that you do not feel as I do ; but, Henri, rest your 
head here upon this bosom, and call me mother, and I will bless you 
a thousand, thousand times. 

Henri. Madam, do not sacrifice every thing at such a moment. 
Do not think that this heart is unmoved, or that these lips do not 
crave to call you by that endearing name ; but reflect. I stand here 
to-day hi tbe presence of her whose voice is unfamiliar to me, whose 
eyes beam with no rays that recall my early years, whose hand never 
pressed my brow in sickness, whose cheering notes never reechoed my 
gleesome joyousness. But yet I feel within me a burning, ardent de- 
sire to clasp my arms around you, and to point forward — I feel that 
all might yet be well, till I reflect that you have dishonored my 
father, and that you have disgraced me. 

La Fiam. My son 

Henri. That stain must be removed. Were it the work of a 
giant, I feel in this right arm the power which would nerve me to 
dare all things. 

La Fiam. On my knees I beseech you, grant me an interview. 
Promise me that your intentions shall be known to me ere you act, 
and I swear, if it is my own life you seek, that I will not throw an 
obstacle in your way. 

Henri. I will meet you again ; but, madam, up, up ; they will be 
here. 

La Fiam. Will you promise ? 

Henri. While Lord Dudley lives I'll promise nothing. 

La Fiam. Then — but they come. 

Enter M. and Mme. Duchateatt, c, Rosalie, Sylvain, r., Lord 
Dudley, and others. 

M. Duch. You sought shelter from the sun. I knew she had. 
(Fiam. bows.) Come, gentlemen, here are tables ; what say you to a 
game at cards ? 

Syl. (Aside.) How wonderfully down in the mouth they are ! 
They look as if they had been to a funeral instead of a pleasant tete- 
a-tete. Sadness, they say, is a sign of love. Ah, how deeply in love 
they must be ! 

Lord D. Well, my friend Duchateau, let us enjoy a game. I 
have a few louis to leave with you. 

M Duch. Excuse me, sir. I am an indifferent player ; but here is 
our friend Henri, who will engage you. 

Lord D. (l. h.) With the greatest pleasure. We can kill a half 
bour pleasantly. 

Henri, (l. h. c.) Sir, I am at your service. (They sit and play.) 



20 LA FIAMMINA. [ACT II. 

La Fiam. {On the opposite side with Rosalie.) Yours is quite a 
pretty name, my dear. Rosalie — it is quite musical. 

Eos. It is strange how like you talk to Henri. 

La Fiam. My child, what do you mean ? 

Ros. It was but last week that he made the same remark ; and 
do you know, madam, that now I look at you, your eyes are exactly 
the same color as his. 

La Fiam. A girlish fancy ; but, my pretty Rosalie, it appears 
you have been looking into his eyes, then. 

Ros. Did you never look into young men's eyes when you were of 
my age ? 

La Fiam. You are but a child. 

Syl. A mere child, madam, I assure you. Throw your shoulders 
back, miss, and sit up straight. 

Ros. My brother is a poet since yesterday. Have you read his 



La Fiam. O, no, my dear. I reserve that pleasure for my boudoir. 

Syl. Madam, you natter me. 

Ros. I'd give a franc to read those verses, for brother pesters me 
about my poet, and 

La Fiam. Your poet ? 

Syl. O, yes ; that's her poet, {points to Henri ;) that is, he is to 
be, if parents consent. 

La Fiam. Henri de Murilla ? 

Ros. Brother, you make me blush, you are so coarse. 

La Fiam. Hide your blushes here, then, my daughter. 

Syl. {Aside.) A singular being that; but all artists are peculiar. 
I knew a danseuse once who threw her night key at me ; didn't 
know what use it could be to me ; but I hissed through it the next night 
she appeared. There is something very peculiar about this La Fiam- 
mina ; though, Heavens, how lovely ! {A servant announces dinner is 
served.} 

M. I)uch. Sylvain, be kind enough to hand Madam Fiammina to 
the dining rooni. 

Syl. The Alps of my happiness is obtained. 

M. Duch. Gentlemen, the dinner is served, and we will partake 
of it. 

Lord D. A few moments' grace I beg, good Monsieur Duchateau. 
The game is interesting. — {To Henri.) I will double the stakes. 

Henri. I am indifferent. {They gather round the table, Fiammina's 
eyes intently bent on Henri.) 

La Fiam. My lord, will you not relinquish now ? The dinner 
waits. 

Lord D. I have obtained a reprieve of ten minutes. 

Henri. {Aside.) That glance at her has turned my heart to stone. 

Lord D. Sir, you play with great skill. 

Henri. Fortune favors me. 

Lord D. The next card decides the game. 

Henri. {Aside.) Would it were soul for soul. 

Lord D. Let us make the stakes an object. 

Henri. As it pleases you. 



SCENE I.] LA FIAMMINA. 21 

Syl. Six thousand francs on the turn of the next card. 

Lord. D. {Throws down his card.) A king ; I have won. 

Henri. My card is still unturned ; but yet I shall win. I feel it, 
sir. I know it. {Throws it down.) 

All. An ace. He wins. 

Lord D. Sir, I thought there had been four aces out. 

Henri. The suspicion is worthy of its author. ( They rise.) 

Lord D. Your anger gives countenance to my thought. 

Henri. Sir, you lie, knowingly, falsely. I have watched you 
closely ; and I am not the mere boy you mistook me for. 

Lord D. Do you reflect upon my honor ? 

Henri. (Laughing, and looking at La Fiammina.) Your honor ! 

La Fiam. Sir, I beseech you 

Henri. You are a gamester, sir, not a gentleman ; and if you 
need more provocation, you shall not wait for it. Scatter this gold 
among the peasants, and tell them it was won from an English lord 
by a man who despises him, and who, in presence of his wife, the 
great Fiammina, throws his glove in his face. (Slaps Loud Dudley 
with his glove.) 

Lord D. (Draws his sword.) Such an insult transcends all obli- 
gation. I'd not spare you were you my own son. (Rushes at him. 
La Fiammina passes betioeen and shelters him. Others seize Lord 
Dudley. Quick curtain.) 

end of act II. 



ACT III. 

Scene I. A Parlor in La Fiammina's House. Lord Dudley dis- 
covered, l. h. Table, chairs, Sec. 



Lord D. (L. H.) The solution of all this it 
reach. The scene in the studio, the protection of Henri, and the 
pleading with me to take no notice of the insult, come like a web 
before my eyes, and leave me in doubt what step to take. All Paris 
is alive with the report. To-day I listened to it at the cafe. One 
said that Henri was infatuated with La Fiammina, and had provoked 
the quarrel to draw me to the field. My suspicions are not yet al- 
layed. If I thought that her eye had but fallen upon him as a lover, 
my resolution would be taken. 

Enter La Fiammina. 

La Fiam. My lord, you seem depressed. Has not my assurance 
brought you that calm which I know you need ? 

Lard D. Fiammina, when your eyes were bent on me, and you 
assured me that your love was still the same, I could not doubt you. 
But the insult ! 



22 1A FIAMMINA. [ACT III. 

La Fiam. My lord, he is but a boy, whose years will not number 
a score and three till Christmas comes. 

Lord D. Who told you this ? And why have you such deep in- 
terest in one who till yesterday was a stranger to you, that you should 
know his age, ay, even to a day ? La Fiammina, I said I did not 
doubt you ; but common report, my own heart tells me, that you 
love him. 

La Fiam. (Aside.) Could I but tell him how dearly ! (To Dud- 
ley.) Sir, you do me wrong. You have your pledge in years of never- 
varying devotion. Had I sighed for wealth, has it not been within 
my reach ? Had rank been my dream, you know it was at my feet ; 
and with it a position as far o'ertopping yours as my fidelity has raised 
me above the poorest creature that breathes. ( Takes staff e L. h.) 

Lord D. (R.) But there is a change passing over you. Last 
week you were loving, cheerful, gay ; but now 

La Fiam. (l.) I am ill — ill at heart. 

Lord D. Then let me know the secret which has thus destroyed 
your peace. 

La Fiam. If I but have your word that you will not harm that 
boy, I will impart it to you. 

Lord D. You have my promise. 

La Fiam. My lord, you have a written bond which can never be 
fulfilled. It is ten years since first you offered me your protection. 
My name was not then known, but your keen eye detected the talent 
which nature had given to me. You offered me honorable marriage, 
and my eventful history was made known to you. I told you then 
how in my girlhood I had married, how I had been deserted by my 
husband, and left to lead a miserable existence. My first attempts to 
sing, my failure, and my subsequent success you knew, and still you 
persisted in making me your own 

Lord D. 'Twas love, Fiammina, which ten happy years have only 
rendered more intense. 

La Fiam. I was surrounded then by a hundred flatterers ; some 
seeking only my ruin ; all vain, selfish, and worldly in their desires. 
I thought I saw in you respect for me as a woman, and I favored your 
suit. 

Lord D. And made me the envied of all Venice ; and now that 
the time is drawing near when legal bonds shall make you my own, 
believe me, Fiammina, I hail the day with as much delight as if it 
were my bridal day indeed. 

La Fiam. But the conditions ? 

Lord D. Time has released you from all allegiance to one who de- 
serted you. Ten years ago you thought him dead, and your written 
bond says, " Should ten years elapse without my hearing aught of 
him, I promise to become your legal wife by such rites of marriage as 
you may impose." There is no obstacle. 

La Fiam. There is. 

Lord D. Where ? What scheme is this that you have planned to 
cast off one who has been more than husband ; to throw aside a per- 
son who has been a slave, who thrice has offered his own life to de- 
fend your honor ? Have I become distasteful to you f Is it young 



SCENE I.] LA FIAMMINA. 23 

blood coursing through youthful veins that you thirst after? (Crosses, 
L. h.) 

La Fiam. (e. h.) My lord, (her hand on his arm,) let not your 
passion lead you upon ground which may open at your feet and swal- 
low you up. Take heed. 

Lord D. Madam, if I have doted on you for years, think not to 
trifle with me now. There is no power on earth that can cause you 
to cast me off. 

La Fiam. My husband still lives. 

Lord I). It is false. (A noise is heard without. Leon, in a dis- 
ordered state, rushes in, L. H., exclaiming, — ) 

Leon. Stand back, or you shall not live to say your evening 
prayer. My boy, where is my boy ? Where is Henri ? 

Lord D. What madman is this ? 

La Fiam. (r., in a whisper.) It is Leon de Murilla. 

Leon. Give me my boy. Tell me, is he slain ? Is he here ? 

Lord D. Sir, calm your grief. Fiammina, I would be alone with 
him. (Exit Fiammina, e.) Sir, though your son's life was forfeited 
by his rashness, I did not take it. Fiammina was the shield which 
protected him. 

Leon. (Aside, l. h.) La Fiammina — I forgive her. If there is a 
blessing in store for mortal, may her cup be full of gladness, as my 
heart is now overflowing with joy. Sir, I pray you pardon this in- 
trusion. He left me yesterday to pass a day at the fete. He said 
that as it would be late ere he was ready to return, he would accept 
the hospitality of a friend near by. To-day a friend came to me and 
told me of your trouble ; and he thought that you had met at mid- 
night. I went to my friend's; the report was confirmed ; and I came 
here. You will not fight the boy ? 

Lord D. I have promised to take no note of this insult ; but let 
him beware of me. As you love him, keep him from my path. Let 
him not look upon me, or I will not answer for his life. 

Leon. Sir, I am your debtor ; but for my love for my boy, 1 
should not have entered. I take my leave. 

Lord D. Stay. The miniature which I left with your son may 
be returned. 

Leon. My lord, I have anticipated your wish. 

Lord D. It is not in my possession. 

Leon. It was delivered at your door ; ' beyond that the responsibili- 
ty is your own. 

Lord D. Sir, this tone 

Leon. My lord, I owe you much for your leniency to my son, 
and you have heard my thanks. This done, we are strangers. I re- 
turn to a home which had been a happy one till your intrusion ; and 
which, with all due reverence to your rank, I humbly beseech may 
never again be honored by your visits. 

Lord D. Your sarcasm I do not heed. 

Leon. It is the sarcasm of a man whose wishes are law when his 
own castle is in danger. 

Lord D. What danger ? 

Leon. There is danger for you, for me. My lord, men's antipa- 



24 LA FIAMMINA. [ACT in. 

thies are inborn ; they spring from impulses which are hidden from 
mortal ken, and which are stirred by as slight a breath as that which 
touches the iEolian harp and moves its strings to plaintive notes. 
There is an influence which oppresses me, even while I stand here, 
which almost deprives reason of its control, and gives license to the 
rule of base instinct. My lord, let us meet no more. I take my 
leave. {Exit, l. h.) 

Lord D. (Solus.) It is the insane breathing of an artist. But 
Fiammina ! The noblest of the land have sought to win a smile from 
Fiammina, and have failed. Money has been lavished upon her, and 
dukes have waited in. her anteroom even for a word. And now a 
youth springs up, whose single glance has more power than wealth or 
title. Impetuous and rash, he has dared even to provoke my ven- 
geance, thinking to send me to another world, and then fill my placo. 
The bond she gave freely and willingly she says shall not be fulfilled. 

Enter Servant, l. h. 
Ser. The Countess of B ami. (Exit.) 

Enter Countess, l. h. 

Coun. Ah, my dear Lord Dudley, I am an early caller, you see. 

Lord D. And always welcome. Fiammina has often told me of 
your kindness to her when she was alone in Rome. 

Coun. She was indeed miserable then ; but all that is passed. 
We have recalled those sad days, and have effaced all sad recollection 
of them. How beautiful she has grown since then ! She does not 
appear a day older since last I saw her. Ah, Fiammina ! 

Enter La Fiammina, r. 

(crosses to her,) I greet you with my compliments. — (Aside.) I have 
seen him. 

La Flam, (r.) Ah, dear countess, it warms my heart to press so 
dear a friend. — (Aside.) Will he come? 

Coun. (a, aside.) He is in my carriage, near by. There is no 
fear of his discovery, even should he go out. Cannot you send him 
away to some distant part of Paris ? 

La Fiam. (Aside.) I dare not. 

Lord D. (l. h.) I believe, madam, that you once charmed the 
public with your singing ? 

Coun. O, yes, but the Count brought to a close my dreams of 
celebrity. I've been singing nursery songs for the past six years. 

La Fiam. Ah, happy mother ! 

Coun. Yes, I ought to be happy, if children can make one happy. 
They are beautiful. 

Lord. D. I can readily believe it. 

La Fiam. And you do not regret your change ? But what should 
you regret ? You have your children, those little angels who hold 
the fibres of their mother's heart. And when you hear them calling 



BCENE I.] XA FIAMMINA. 25 

you mother, you forget the world, its f6tes, its pleasures, its happi- 
ness ; for you see all these reflected in those eyes which so earnestly 
and lovingly seek you. Joy is on those sweet lips, and the encore of 
the most enraptured audience is not worth one hour of bliss like that. 
Lord D. {Aside.) Would that we had been blessed with such 
sacred ties. 

Coun. {Aside.) "Will he never go ? — {To La Fiammina.) You 
are right, Fiammina. I adore my little ones ; and what's more, I 
adore my husband. But I can't help it, he is so good, so kind, so 
agreeable ; and he too loves the children. But, dear me, Fiammina, 
you are in tears. 

La Flam. Ah, my dear, they are tears of congratulation. Your 
lot is a happy one. 

Lord D. Ladies, I will leave you. You have secrets, perhaps, 
and I have business at my banker's. Fiammina, I shall return in two 
hours. • {Exit, l. h.) 

Coun. I was afraid he would never go. And now, my love, let 
me tell you, I sought Henri de Murilla, as you requested. I don't 
blame you for falling in love with him. I confess that once I looked 
favorably upon him. 

La Fiam. My lady ! 

Coun. Don't be jealous. He didn't notice me, and he never no- 
tices any one, it is said. I accidentally met him on the road, and, as 
I have long known him, I had no difficulty in persuading him to 
come with me to see you. 

La Fiam. But how shall he come in ? If Lord Dudley should 
return, he would kill him. 

Coun. Ah, my dear, I told you at the opera last night that I 
would arrange all. This hotel was formerly the residence of my hus- 
band's uncle. I know every passage in it. This door opens upon a 
balcony which leads to the terrace in the rear, and thence, through 
the garden, you can pass to the rear of the house, where my carriage 
with Henri is now waiting at the gate, the key to which your porter 
readily gave me. I don't know what to think of myself for enlisting 
in an affair of gallantry. 

La Fiam. {Interrupting .) Countess, do not think so meanly of 
me as that. 

Coun. {Laughingly.) O, no — no. I understand. 

La Fiam. You saw my tears flow but a moment since. Think 
you that they came at my bidding ? 

Coun. You alarm me. 

La Fiam. Listen. You knew me when I was gay and thought- 
less ; but I am changed. I thought that my triumphs, my life of 
artificiality, had dried up within me every fount of purer love — of that 
love which none but a mother feels when other lips repeat that tender 
word. I thought that my heart was hardened to every domestic influ- 
ence, until I stood in the presence of my son. 

Coun. Your son ? 

La Fiam. Yes, my son ; for Henri de Murilla is mine own. 

Coun. Does Lord Dudley know of this ? 



26 LA FIAMMINA. [ACT UI. 

La Fiam. No ; but bring Henri here ; I must see him, for my 
heart is breaking. 

Court. I will. {Exit by door, L. h.) 

La Fiam. {Kneels.') Ah, give me strength to speak as I should 
speak, in this trying hour. By the long sufferings of the past, impart 
to me the power to imbue his heart with the love which I have for- 
feited, but which now I so sincerely covet. Open his ear to my voice, 
and soften his nature to forgiveness, for 'tis an erring mother that 
pleads. 

Enter Henri, l. h. 

Henri. Madam, I am here at your command. Your friend 
awaits on the balcony. 

La Fiam. Henri, if you would kill me, pour forth your curses on 
my head, or strike here to your mother's heart, and close her dying 
eyes. Even then I will bless you. But stand not there to mock my 
grief. Hast thou a human impulse in thy bosom, — speak to me. 
Call me motber, and my soul will soar away in ecstasy. 

Henri. Madam, you have stepped between me and happiness. 
You have prevented my revenge upon Lord Dudley. 

La Fiam. He never wronged thee knowingly. 

Henri. He wrongs me every moment that he lives in thy embrace. 
He wrongs me every moment that he breathes the air which I breathe. 

La Fiam. He is guiltless. 

Henri. Then thou art doubly guilty, for to the wrong my father 
suffers, to the shame which I feel branded on my brow, thou hast 
added the deception of another. But it matters not. 

La Fiam. I will leave him, Henri. I will forsake the world. I 
will fly to another land, if I can carry thy forgiveness with me. 

Henri. He would follow. I know his infatuation. 

Im Fiam. Devise some way by which I can escape him, and now, 
to-night, this very moment, I will leave. I will beg for the crumbs 
which fall from the poorest peasant's table, I will toil if thou but 
pledge me thy word that thou wilt warm this heart by thy embrace. 

Henri. But even then he will live. I shall feel, every day, that 
the man walks the face of this earth who has caused me disgrace. 
When I rise in the morning it will be my first thought, and at even- 
ing's close it will be my last. 

La Fiam. My son, there is One above whose eye is all-seeing. I 
know that thy heart bleeds ; but visit not your anger upon Lord Dud- 
ley. Let it fall upon me. O, how joyfully would death come now, 
could it but embrace us both in its dark fold ! O, 'twould be a pleas- 
ant thing to die with thy warm kiss upon my lips ! Give me thy 
hand. {She takes it.) 

Henri. {Aside.) Great Heaven, my heart relents ! Her touch 
has softened this flinty heart of mine, and it melts. 

La Fiam. My boy, look upon me. 

Henri. {Aside.) If I look I am lost. 

La Fiam. Forgive me, Henri, for all the suffering I have caused 
thee. 

Henri. I do. 



SCENE I.] LA FIAMMINA. 27 

La Fiam. Bear this message to thy father. Bid him forget me. 
Our secret is still a secret to the world. I wish him happiness. 

Henri. O, how richly he deserves it! and 

La Fiam. But for me he would now be happy. Tell Rosalie, 
should she ever know thou hast seen thy mother, that I blessed her. 

Henri. (Aside.) Could she but flee across the ocean and seek an 
asylum there, I could provoke Lord Dudley to the fight. — Madam, 
you can escape the protection of Lord Dudley. Will you fly ? 

La Fiam. I will, if I can know that you are not endangered. 
Lord Dudley is jealous, and you would be the first whom he would 
seek. 

Henri. I will remain in Paris. My presence here will be an an- 
swer to his doubts. 

La Fiam. It will. 

Henri. I have a friend who leaves to-night for distant lands. He 
is a tried and faithful one, and will do me any service. In his charge 
I would trust a wife. 

La Fiam. I am ready to go, my son, wherever you may direct, if 
I can only feel that you are safe. 

Henri. There is no danger. 

La Fiam. Are you sure ? 

Henri. I am. There is not a moment to spare. Repair at once to 
your chamber, and there deposit every jewel which came from Lord 
Dudley's hands, for you will leave him forever. 

La Fiam. (Going.) I obey your every wish. (Exit, n.) 

Henri. Now do I feel that the hour is drawing near. The blood 
which has but coolly flowed is reaching to my brain. I see him here 
calling for La Fiammina, and echo mocks him. I see him standing 
in her room, while fear and revenge alternately flush and pale that 
cheek. He will seek her at the Opera, he will seek her every where, 
and will seek me. Ah, ha, ha ! he shall not find her. One word of 
insult, one curl of his lip, or even a doubt expressed by a flash of that 
eye, and I will strike him down. Should he plead, I will mock him 
with laughter. I will madden him so that if he were a woman he 
would resent it. Then, ah, then ! one of us shall bite the dust, 
and so will end my misery. 

Enter La Fiammina, r. 

One word. Can we trust your friend the countess ? 

La Fiam. We can. 

Henri. Fiammina, look your last upon these halls of shame, 
feast your eye upon the luxury you are leaving, and think of what the 
future may bring forth. 

La Fiam. Would that I could efface the past as easily as I can all 
regret for these. 

Henri. I say again, reflect. There may be death in this step. 

La Fiam. So that I die in serving thee, I care not. My resolution 
cannot be shaken. I follow blindly ; for what sacrifice is too great for 
a mother when her child's happiness is at stake ? (Noise is heard from 
the direction in which Lord Dudley went out.) 



28 LA FIAMMINA. [ACT IV- 

Henri. Some one approaches. There is not a moment to waste. 
By this door we gain the terrace, and then all is well. 

La Fiam. I tremble : some impending danger awaits us. 

Henri. Let us haste. Is not your son with you ? What do you 
fear? 

La Fiam. I have no fear. Lead me where you will, I follow. 

Henri. This way. {Goes to private D., R.) 

La Fiam. There are footsteps here. 

Henri. The countess awaits us. It is she. ( Throws open the pri- 
vate R. h. d., and Lord Dudley stands there ; the Countess, l. h., 
rushes in from the other door, and stands by Fiammina. Quick Curtain.) 

END OF ACT III. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I A Garden at Duchateau's. Leon and Duchateau dis- 
covered on a rustic bench, R. h. 

Leon. {Rising, l. h.) Sir, I have completed my task. I have 
informed you of every thing, and you must judge for yourself. 

M. Duch. (r.) If your wife had remained away from Paris, my 
decision would have been unchanged. The very celebrity of both 
of you renders it impossible that the secret should remain long con- 
cealed. You know, my dear friend, that we, political men, live 
in glass houses, and fifty journalists are at our doors. 

Leon. In your position circumspection is requisite. 

M. Duch. I really don't know what step to take. The fact that 
your wife lives separated from you would subject my daughter, were 
it made public, to insulting remarks about her mother-in-law. 

Leon. You are right in giving due weight to all this ; and I am 
sorry that we must sacrifice the happiness of our children. 

M. Duch. Do not say that: you make me feel too unhappy. 
What can be done ? 

Leon. My son and myself must bear the consequences of an in- 
evitable situation. Take Rosalie with you to Italy ; for separation 
may heal the wound. 

M. Duch. I will. I thank you for the suggestion. These clouds 
may yet pass over, and all may be well. I will say nothing to 
Rosalie, for I do so dislike to see her in tears. 

Leon. I trust your hopes may be realized ; but I fear, alas ! that 
Henri's happiness and mine own are lost forever. 

Enter Rosalie, r., and crosses to Leon. 

Ros. Ah, my dear father ! Should I not say dear fathers ? 
M. Duch. O, yes, my child ; there will be no harm in that, 
though I am scarcely prepared to share your love with another. 



BOENE I.] LA FIAMMINA. 29 

Ros. And what news from Henri ? 

Leon. Good news, my dear ; he will consent to your absence in 
Italy, provided that by each post he receives an epistle recording 
every thought, every impression 

Ros. Me — Italy — leave Henri ! Father, what is this ? 

M. Duch. Be calm, my daughter. I told you, it is true, that I 
would leave you under the protection of your aunt ; but, upon re- 
flection, I shall take you with me. 

Ros. I detest travelling. 

M. Duch. But to see Italy : 

Ros. That will come with my bridal tour. 

Leon. My dear, you should not reject so excellent an opportu- 
nity. You will be better enabled to talk with Henri of a land he 
loves with enthusiasm. 

Ros. But father and mother will be little company for me. 
Imagine me following after them, dragging myself round, with no 
one to say a word to me. 

M . Duch. You forget your brother Sylvain. He will go with us. 

Enter Sylvain, l. h. 

Syl. Certainly, my dear sister, I am going. 

Ros. He is no associate for me. 

Syl. But very useful in looking after the luggage, as you will 
find, and somewhat valuable in teaching postboys their duties. 
Ah, my dear friend, I did not expect to find you here. (Crosses to 
Leon.) 

Leon. I had business with your father. I envy you this tour. 

Syl. Take my place, go this journey, and send in your bill. I 
look upon it with shivering. Fancy the poor beds, the cold dinners, 
the late suppers, hard rides, tedious sight seeing, crusty and wrinkled 
old chambermaids that are in store for us, not to mention midnight 
affrays with those little tormentors incidental to Italian inns. 

M. Duch. Always growling. 

Syl. Yes, sir, and I have the proud satisfaction of knowing that 
somebody else will growl when it comes to paying the expenses of 
four. (Duchateau, Leon, and Rosalie go to rear.) I wonder what 
that triangle are concocting. I don't believe they know a word of 
this news. I am afraid it will lacerate sister Rosalie's heart; but 
young flesh heals quickly. I suspected that Henri was in love with 
Fiammina ; and this morning there is a vague rumor at the club that 
Lord Dudley had detected them in the very act of elopement. A 
pretty countess is mixed up in the affair. Some say that she proved 
treacherous, and others that she endeavored to save Henri and 
Fiammina, but arrived too late. 

Enter Servant, r. 

Serv. A letter for you, Monsieur Sylvain. (Exit, e.) 

Syl. A letter for me, and from Henri too . (Reads, aside ; Leon, 

Rosalie, and Duchateau up stage.) " My dear Sylvain, I have need, 

in half an hour, of your services for a few moments. I can depend 

3 * 



30 LA FIAMMINA. [ACT IV. 

upon your secrecy. Come to my father's studio. He is absent for tht 
day. Henri." A duel, I expect. I bless the stars that I am invited 
to such a recherche entertainment. (Crosses, r.) At last this slug- 
gish blood of mine will be warmed up. Father, I shall leave you 
now ; any commands for Paris ? 

M. Duck. None, my son. (Exit Sylvain, r.) 

Leon. Yes, Rosalie, I will accept your invitation ; but let the re- 
past be simple ; and if prepared by your hands, it will have a greater 
relish. 

Bos. Come, (crosses l.,) you shall go in. I have fresh strawber- 
ries which I culled with my own fingers, before the dew was off the 
leaves, and some 

Leon. (To Duchateau.) I will return to you again. 

(Exeunt Rosalie and Leon, l. h.) ■ 

M. Duck. Ah, how she loves the father ! but 'tis for the son's 
sake. What will she say when she hears all ? I tremble for the re- 
sult. I don't think that I will inform my wife of this romantic affair, 
for she has a propensity for imparting news which should not be im- 
parted, which has nearly cost me my office twice. The sound of 
wheels ! Who can come here ? As I declare, it is the equipage (look- 
ing r. h.) of La Fiammina. The storm is thickening. She will see 
her husband. What's to be done ? 

Enter La Fiammina, r. 

La Flam. My dear friend, I am in deep trouble. (Looks around 
and aside.) He is not here. Can I trust this man ? 

M. Duch. Madam, command my services. I am at your disposal. 

La Fiam. A truce, then, to etiquette. I came here to seek Leon 
de Murilla. Is he here ? 

M. Duch. He is. 

La Fiam. As you profess to be my friend, bring me into his 
presence, and leave us together for a few moments. I have a secret of 
great importance to impart to him. 

M. Duch. Madam, I will send him to you instanly. Here you 
will be quite alone, and I will see that no one comes this way. 

La Fiam. Thanks, good friend. (Exit Duchateau, l. h.) 
What shall I say to him ? Shall I confess all ? shall I seek to gain 
his heart again ? Alas ! that were impossible. He comes. 

Enter Leon, l. h. 

Leon. Madam, I await your wishes. 

La Fiam. Leon, I have come to you to seek your counsel. There 
is danger threatening your son. 

Leon. Be calm, madam; my protection will shield him; it has 
done so in the past ; it will do so in the future. 

La Fiam. True — true. I had forgotten that I had lost the right 
to mingle my life with yours, even to protect our child. 

Leon. You misinterpret my words, madam. 

La Fiam. When you saw danger threatening him yesterday, you 



SCENE I.] LA. FIAMMINA.. 31 

came into my presence to seek him. Did not your heart tell you that 
his mother was there to protect ? Did you not know that at any 
sacrifice his life was safe ? 

Leon. I did not reflect. It has been my duty alone to guard him. 

La Flam. Bless you, Leon, bless you, for all your care of him. 
You have most nobly devoted yourself to him. You are indeed re- 
venged for all the grief I caused you. 

Leon. Madam, you were not alone in the wrong ; neither do I 
covet revenge. 

La Fiam. Think not, Leon, I come here to justify myself, or to 
accuse you. If suffering on this earth can expiate the sins of youthful 
folly, then have I atoned for mine. When I left you, I was a prey 
to every passion of my nature ; and I know too well what provocation 
I had given you. Alone in the world, I endeavored to cleave my 
way through the contending waves ; but I was unequal to the task, 
when Lord Dudley offered me his protection, which it was death to 
have refused. 

Leon. Why recall this ? When a woman has lived separated from 
her husband, his honor is no longer safe, and all happiness for the fu- 
ture is lost. I vainly dreamed that secrecy could dull the edge of 
grief ; but we reap, sooner or later, the fruit of what we have sown. 

La Fiam. As a wife I feel that I have but little claim to your 
sympathy ; but, sir, as a mother 

Leon. Speak that holy appellation with reverence. Have you 
not forfeited the right to have your ear softened by its utterance? 
Have you not accepted a position in another family, to which I could 
not introduce my son ? 

La Fiam. Ah, you overwhelm me under the weight of reasoning ; 
but my heart justifies all I claim. I was indeed mad, and I have 
been a bad mother ; but I have seen him, and I love him. Peace 
cannot close these eyelids in the long sleep of the grave unless I live 
to win his affection. Sir, I have wronged you ; but repentance, most 
sincere, bids me claim as a right the love of my child. It is a privi- 
lege which no man can deny a mother. 

Leon. I shall not prevent him. He is free in his affections. 

La Fiam. But has he not learned to curse me ? 

Leon. No, madam. I have taught him to retain as pure and 
stainless the remembrance of his mother. He thought her dead till 
we met again. 

La Fiam. You know his hatred of Lord Dudley has exposed his 
life. Again he seeks to anger him. 

Leon. That must not be. Every thing must be sacrificed to pre- 
vent such a quarrel. 

La Fiam. I have endeavored to prevent it. Yesterday I had an 
interview with my son. I sought his forgiveness. I pleaded for his 
love. " Leave Lord Dudley," he said, " and flee to a distant land, 
and I will bless you." Methought this promise made me happy again. 
I consented, when Lord Dudley, having his suspicions aroused by 
seeing a carriage at the garden gate, rushed in. A friend led Henri 
away, and I endeavored to pacify him whose jealousy of Henri as a 
lover knew no bounds. 



32 LA FIAMMINA. [ACT IV. 

Leon. Does he not know that he is your son ? 

La Flam. No ; though he knew I left a husband, I did not dare 
to confess that I left a babe. What would he have thought of me ? 
What will he think of me now I 

Leon. He must know all. You must tell him. 

La Fiam. I cannot. 

Leon. It is your duty. Say to him, too, that France must be to 
both of you forbidden ground. Leave my country to me and Henri, 
and respect our grief. 

La Flam. But Henri will not consent to this. 

Leon. He will be guided by me. 

La Flam. Then if he does this heart of mine will break. I cannot 
yield him up, were my life depending upon it. But here is the 
countess. She brings bad news. 

Enter Countess, n. 

Coun. Ah, madam, all is lost, all is ruined. The public prints 
have made mention of your trouble yesterday. It is the excitement 
of the town. This morning Lord Dudley was at the club, where he 
read the account, which says that Henri is your lover. He arose and 
left, and I fear that ere this they have met. 

La Flam. Is this true ? 

Coun. It is. My husband vouches for it. 

Leon. ( Going to door.) My friend Duchateau ! 

Enter M. Duchateau with Rosalie, l. h. 

We have need of friends. Let my horses be at the door in an instant. 
Ladies, meet me at my studio with all speed. 

M . Duch. What new danger threatens us ? 

La Fiam. Not a moment is to be lost. Come with me. {All 
leave for rear of stage. Quick close m.) 



Scene II. — A Street Scene in Paris. 

Enter Stlvain, r. 

Syl. Upon my word I don't fancy this arrangement at all, and 
though I have been suffering for the want of a little bloodshed for 
the past ten years, I can't say that I relish this mode of doing business. 
It is now eight o'clock, and at half past eight they meet alone in Leon's 
studio, and fight in the dark. There are to be no witnesses. They are 
to walk in, lock the doors, and fight it out. My pleasant duty it is, 
at Henri's request, to call round at nine o'clock and take charge of 
the wounded or dead. That's not so agreeable. I've half a mind to 
put a stop to all this. And who'll thank me ? Rosalie will ; Leon 
will ; and La Fiammina — but she never returned a word for my lines. 
Henri will curse me ; possibly he will challenge me. If I thought he 
would, I'd fly to Fiammina, and bring matters to a focus in a very 



III.] LA MAMMINA. SS 

short time. I'll consider of this. But why consider ? My whole life 
has been passed in consideration, and if I only could have made up my 
mind for action, I should have been killed in Algiers, or married, 
which is the same thing, so they say. Reflection has been my ruin. 
I reflected upon the propriety of offering myself to Liza de Mont- 
ferrie, and that fool of an Emile jumped into her arms and married 
her before I had finally concluded that it was time to act. I'll reform 
— I'll not reflect. Human life is precious. Henri is too wise a fel- 
low to spit himself in the dark. I'll go to the studio, and without 
reflection, kill them both, if they don't relinquish this foolish fight. 

{Exit, L. H.) 

Scene HI. — Leon's Studio. 

Enter Henri and Lord Dudley, c. ; close the doors. 

Henri, (l., to Servant.) Leave us. — {To Lord Dudley.) Sir, 
there will be no interruption here ; and now I ask no quarter, for I 
shall give none. 

Lord D. (r.) Sir, I have pardoned your effrontery before, but 
you have given my shame to the public. At every corner idlers 
busy with other men's affairs talk of your amour with my wife. 

Henri. Your wife ? 

Lord D. Yes, my wife, by the rights of kindness, by the ties of 
love for ten long years. 

Henri. My lord, she is your mistress. 

Lord D. Sir, you provoke my anger too far. Till she saw you, 
her eyes have not fallen in favor upon living man. I know not what 
charm you have used to win her affections from me ; but even in her 
dreams, I've heard her whisper your name. 

Henri. We dream of those we love. 

Lord D. Bov, I would forgive the past — I would forgive all — 
if 

Henri. My lord, do you wish renewed insult ? Shall I brand you 
publicly as a coward ? 

Lord D. I have given proof of my bravery in more than one en- 
counter, and despite your insult, promise but to avoid her, and even 
now I will not harm you. 

Henri. {Takes out La Fiajimina's miniature.') Sir, this is the ob- 
ject of my adoration. You stand 'twixt her and me. 

Lord D. No more; we fight alone ? 

Henri. And in the dark. 

Lord D. I will not fight in the dark ; it is not the custom of the 
day. 

Henri. Sir, we will initiate a new custom. 

Lord D. It will be but murder. There will be no skill. 

Henri. Sir, the chances are equal for both. I would not see you 
die, nor would I feel that the pangs of death, which you may cause 
me, were seen by you. Sir, take your weapon. 

Lord D. By Heavens, I cannot refuse ! Would that I had a wit- 
ness here to prove that this was forced upon me. 



34 LA FIAMMINA. [ACT IV. 

Henri. Sir, take your stand there. I -will extinguish these lights. 
At the word, let us approach, and may Justice aim the blow. 

Lord D. Sir, I protest ; and 

Henri. But I love Fiammina. 

Lord D. I'll meet you in the field, for I would not kill you if I 
could 

Henri. But for you, she would have been in my arms last night. 

Lord D. Away all fear ! You drive me to desperation ; take your 
ground ; I am ready. {They take weapons, and Henri extinguishes the 
candles.) Once more I offer you pardon, if you will but promise 

Henri. Were I standing on the brink of infamy, and your arm 
could plunge me in or save me, I'd not promise. 

Lord D. Remove your diamond stud ; it is a guide for my uner- 
ring sword. 

Henri. It was Fiammina's gift. I'm on my guard. {They fight 
without touching.) You are too cautious of yourself. Approach and 
vindicate by action your boasts of bravery. ( They change positions.) 

Lord D. That taunt shall be your last ! (Noise is heard without.) 

Henri. Sir, some one approaches. Let us not delay. ( They fight. 
Noise and screams are heard without, c.) 

Lord D. It is Fiammina. 

Henri. It is she I love — strike if you would secure her heart. 

La Fiam. (Without.) Henri! Henri! 

Henri. It is to me she pleads. 

Lord D. Then, by Heaven, she shall have thy corpse for her sweet 
love. (Dudley, R., makes at Henri, l., when the door bursts open and 
Fiammina enters. Dudley's sword passes through her, and he quickly 
withdraws it, and rushes to the front.) I have killed him ! (All the 
characters rush in c. with lights, and La Fiammina falls upon her face.) 

Leon. (r. c.) What deed of horror is this ? my wife ! my poor 
wife ! 

Lord D. (l., aside.) His wife ! 

La Fiam. (c.) O justice, slow but unerring ! Where is my 
son? 

Henri, (r.) I am here. 

Lord D. Your son ! 

La Fiam. My lord, I have wronged you, but O how slightly, 
when I think of the deep, deep misery which I have brought upon 
these ! 

Lord D. Why did you conceal all this from me ? My duty 
would have been to make thee happy at any cost. 

La Fiam. Happy, my lord ! There was no happiness for me, 
and death only could give me repose. I did not seek that boon, but 
it has come ; I thank Heaven for its mercy ! My boy, thy hand. 
(He extends it.) Rosalie. (Rosalie goes to her, l.) There was a 
dark cloud hovering over you, but you knew it not. It was I who was 
to cause thy young heart its first grief. An all-powerful hand, which 
works its wonders unseen, has willed that the raven should seek its 
rest. May the dove of peace be with you. Love Henri ; speak to 
him when I am gone of his mother, whose latest breath will bless you 
both. 



SCENE III.] LA FIAMMINA. 35 

Ros. I will. 

Lord D. Fiammina, live that I may show thee how much I loved 
thee ! I will forsake all — I will 

Leon. 'Tis too late, she faints ! 

La Fiam. My boy, thou hast refused me one boon. I ask it not 
now. I had hoped to hear thee call me mother. When I am dead, 
whisper it at my grave. Come thou at evening, and kneel, and call 
me mother. 

Henri. I will — will — for I am indeed thy son, and thou art 
my mother. 

La Fiam. (Utters a shriek of joy, and springs up.) I heard thy 
lips pronounce it — new life is here — thy pardon is in my ears. 
There is a treasure here, which death cannot rob me of. A new light 
is breaking through the clouds — death comes to me in flowing folds 
of living light — the grim spectre is gone — Leon, forgive me. 

Leon. My wife. 

La Fiam. Henri ! Henri ! 

Henri. I am here, my mother ! 

La Fiam. The angels reecho those syllables — I die in thy arms, 
my son. (Dies. Slow music.) 



SITUATIONS. 
Servants, with lights. Servants, with lights. 

M. Duchateau. Henri. Leon. La Fiammina. Rosalie. Dudley. 
r. h. Slow Curtain. L. H. 



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Two Characters Each- 
Bachelor's Bedroom 

i No. 1, Round the Corner, 

I Conjugal Lesson, 
; j Morning Call, 

l Antony and Clopatra, 
: j A Lady and Gentleman in 

I a Perplexing Predicament 

I Personation, 

I Three Characters. 

i | Box and Cox, 

Love in Humble Life, 
i Delicate Ground, 
' i Good Little Wife, 
i My "Wife's Diary, 

Opposite Neighbors, 

A Soldier's Courtship, 

Sent to the Tower, 

Two can play at that game. 
i Advice w Husbands, 



Four Characters. 

Betsey Baker, 
Bombastes Furioso, 
Victor Vanquished, 
Comedy and Tragedy, 
A Good Fellow, 
Romance Under Difficulties, 
Laughing Hyena* 
Cosey Couple, 

Five Characters. 



Poor Pillicoddy, 
| , Swiss Swains, 
! j Nature and Philosophy, 
i | Eton Boy, - 
i Bloomer Costume, 
| j A Kiss in the Dark, 
iss Cottage, 



Ladies Beware, 

Two Buzzards, 

Young wife & Old Umbrella. 

Two Gregories, 

Who Speaks First, 

White Bait at Greenwich, 

In for a Holiday, 

Two Heads better than One. 

Six Characters. 

Rights of Man, 

Siamese Twins, 

My Husband's Ghost, 

Mr. & Mrs. White. 

My Husband's Mirror, 

My Aunt 

Dumb Belle, 

Stage Struck Yankee, 

Trying it On, 

Teddy Roe, 

Box & Cox Married & Settled, 

Loan of a Lover, [shaw, 

Grimshaw, Bagshaw & Brad- 

My Neighbour's Wife, 

The Secret, 

Two Friends, 

Two Bonnycastle3, 

Widow's Victim, 

A Fasinating Individual, 

Match Making, 

A Match in the Dark, 

Bengal Tiger. 

Seven Characters. 

A Family Failing, 
The Scholar, 
The Limerick Boy, 
Spring and Autumn, 
Object of Interest, 
Grist to the Mill, 
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Norah Crelna. 
Family Jars. 
Irish Tutor, 
Irish Assurance, 
Slasher and Crasher, 
Hunting a Turtle, 
Second Love. 
Our Wife. 

Eight Characters. 

Love in Livery, 
A Roland for an Oliver, 
Barrack Room, 
Dead Shot, 
First Night, 
The Mummy, 
Our Jemimy, 
Spectre Bridegroom, 
Fish Out of Water. 
Time Tries All, 
The Young Scamp, 
Fighting by Proxy, 

T^Fine Characters. 
My Fellow Clerk, 
Bough Diamond, 
Bamboozling, 
Deaf as a Post, 
Happy Man, 
Irish Lion, 
Idiot Witness, 
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Omnibus, 
Old Guard, 
Little Treasure, 
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